


The Expandable Force Affair

by Jazline



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:34:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25637398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jazline/pseuds/Jazline
Summary: It's 1972.  An experimental explosive that Illya Kuryakin had worked on has gained new attention, and UNCLE needed him to finish the project.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

(Many, many thanks to **Romanse** for all her wonderful help and support!... Hey kiddo, you know why!)

and to **David Bowie** for his epic “Space Oddity”!

**1972**

  
_...This is ground control to Major Tom, you've really made the grade  
And the papers want to know whose shirts you wear  
Now it's time to leave the capsule if you dare..._

  
Korey Nicksson put down his paintbrush and checked his wrist watch. It read 1:10 in the morning and strains of David Bowie’s “Space Oddity” echoed loudly off of the freshly painted walls. He wiped his hands on the legs of his paint-spattered coveralls before lowering the volume on the radio which stood atop a stool in the corner of the barren room.

_  
...This is major Tom to ground control, I'm stepping through the door  
And I'm floating in a most peculiar way  
And the stars look very different today  
Here am I floatin' 'round my tin can far above the world  
Planet Earth is blue and there's nothing I can do..._

  
More time had passed than he’d realized. Korey had begun painting the second floor dining room of the South Street apartment hours ago. The room’s three large windows were open, as well as those in the adjoining living room, hoping to dissipate the latex paint’s fumes. Cool breezes from the mid-May night floated through the apartment.

  
Nicksson did not noticed the odors, though. He had been house painting for about a year and a half, and his nose rarely registered the mildly pungent smell.

  
After lowering David Bowie’s vocals, he took a moment to look around the room. Dropcloths covered the hardwood floors and tape masked the glass on the windows. Brushes in several sizes soaked in a half-filled bucket of soapy water with a roll of paper towels nearby. A disposable cup of cold, stale coffee stood by the radio, its protective plastic lid preventing drops of unwanted paint from mixing in with the brew.

  
The walls were a soft ecru satin paint with gloss white trim. He had previously rolled two coats of flat white paint onto the ceiling to give the room the appearance of being even larger than it actually was. He smiled to himself, proud of his handiwork.

  
By all standards, this particular Center City Philadelphia townhouse was spacious. The brick building stood in the middle of the 2000 block of South Street. Many of the adjoining desolate homes on the surrounding blocks, once glorious in their heyday, were being renovated and broken up into smaller apartments. They would soon to be available to renters who liked urban living. Others, like the house Korey was working on, would remain a single residence.

  
This particular part of South Street had gone derelict over the years. Homes were boarded up, often becoming temporary residences for itinerant squatters. Once viable shops were shuttered and boarded up as well. The area was slowly being gentrified by investors who knew a good buy when they saw one. Korey Nicksson, though, was not one of those investors. He was, instead, a hired contractor who repaired the houses.

  
It was at the turn of the decade when Korey Nicksson came to Philadelphia. His presence was shrouded in secrecy and he scrounged for work and a place to live. After just a week of living by his wits on the streets, Korey met Michael Dansky. Dansky was one of those investors buying up parcels of South Street and rejuvenating them, hoping to turn a profit once the houses and apartments were beautiful again.

  
Michael Dansky allowed Korey to live in one of his buildings while renovating his other properties. The investor did not ask too many questions and allowed payment for all the work to be done ‘under the table’, which suited Korey perfectly well. There was not a lot of money to be made by the house painter, but he did have a place to hang his hat and a few dollars in his pocket.

  
The wail of fire trucks sounded in the distance, rousing Korey Nicksson from his momentary respite. As the seconds passed, the blaring sirens increased. He looked out of the living room window, which faced South Street, and noticed the sound was coming from the left - the west - and the fire trucks were heading east towards the Delaware River.

  
After the fire trucks passed, he looked at his watch a second time - almost 1:20. His goal for the night was to finish the dining room and he had only a little more to paint. The walls were almost completed. All he needed to do after finishing the woodwork along the floor was the lattice between the panes of glass on the windows.

  
Korey Nicksson gulped down the remainder of the cold coffee. He removed his hat and ran paint-speckled fingers through a shock of blond hair. The cap was replaced on his head before he resumed painting.

  
Time passed relatively quickly while listening to WIBG on his transistor radio. Although he would have really preferred jazz or classical music, the tunes broadcasted from the rock and roll station kept him alert. In the span of less than two hours, all the woodwork was painted with its second coat of gloss white.

His last job for the night was painting the wooden latticework between the panes of glass in the windows. He had already done the tedious work of masking the glass; a second coat of white gloss needed to be applied and he was finished.

Nicksson liked working throughout the night. He found there were less distractions than working a regular nine-to-five job. The city was virtually sleeping along with the majority of its inhabitants.

  
By necessity, Korey had to shut the windows before painting their latticework. He regretting losing the fresh air the open windows offered, and chose to do this particular job last for that reason. He closed the windows just before painting them, leaving as many open for as long as possible.

  
While painting the lattice in the second window, the hairs on the nape of his neck tingled. There was a subtle shift in the air currents circulating through the room which could only be caused by a door or another window opening. It was barely noticeable, but Korey felt it nevertheless.

  
Despite the quiet tones of Elvis Presley’s ‘Love Me Tender’, WIBG’s current song, Nicksson detected soft footsteps ascending the stairs to the second floor. He had locked the door upon entering and was certain about engaging the deadbolt as well. Whoever this intruder was had managed to break in practically undetected.

  
Korey Nicksson put down his paintbrush and unfastened the top three buttons of his coveralls. He reached inside and into the inner pocket which held his gun. He silently moved left and nestled himself behind the dining room door.

  
“You really ought to be more careful,” Napoleon Solo’s all too familiar voice commented as he walked through the threshold. Without skipping a beat, he moved past the door and grasped its doorknob, bringing it towards him to reveal Korey Nicksson’s hiding place. “You were an open target to the entire city of Philadelphia standing by the window like that.” Solo paused for a moment and smiled. “Haven’t I taught you better, Illya?”

  
Illya Kuryakin shook his head and sighed.

  
“How the hell did you find me, Napoleon?” Illya asked, his tone infused with indignation. He moved from his hiding place and into the dining room.

  
Solo walked further in the room and looked around at his former partner’s handiwork. He nodded in appreciation.  
“It seemed like you had literally fallen off the face of the earth,” Napoleon said as he turned to face Kuryakin. “You’ve been very hard to find.”

  
“Apparently not that hard, Napoleon,” Illya sighed. He knew this day would eventually come. “What brings you here? And why?”

  
“Well, it appears that we are not the only ones on the lookout for one errant Russian UNCLE agent, my friend.”

  
“Why are my whereabouts so important? I retired from UNCLE almost two years ago.”

  
“’Resigned’ is more like it, Illya. You left without saying a word to me. You owed me more than that!”

“Regardless, I chose to leave the Command.”

“And we respected your decision. But we’ve intercepted information leading us to believe that Thrush is actively looking for you.”

“I cannot imagine why, Napoleon. I have nothing of interest for them.”

Solo smiled a little. “Aw, c’mon, Illya. We both know that one never really ‘leaves’ UNCLE. You still carry around those nasty little secrets in that head of yours. Even with debriefing and detraining, both of which, by the way, you avoided like the plague, there is still information you carry.”

“And it will remained forever locked in my brain.”

“Well, Thrush may see it a little differently. Their tactics and truth serums have become more sophisticated over the years, and at this point, you are no longer protected against them by our preventative drug therapies.”

“What in the world would they possibly want from me?”

“Information, Illya. They have peaked an interest in your scientific data concerning expandable force explosives.”

Illya chuckled. “I haven’t blown anything up in quite some time, Napoleon. Obviously anything I worked on in UNCLE’s labs is long passé. Surely their scientists have come up with their own expandable force inventions.”  
Napoleon took a few steps closer to the Russian. Illya stood his ground and did not budge.

“Mr. Waverly sent me here to bring you back to New York. You were his personal project when he brought you into the Command from Russia, and he feels your life is in danger.”

“And you are assuming I will go with you?”

“No... I was hoping you would return with me.”

Illya stood silent for a few seconds. He shook his head. “Sorry, Napoleon. I cannot do that.”

“Why?”

“I like this feeling of anonymity. I also like not getting shot at, stabbed, drugged and tortured on a regular basis. It does wear thin after a while,” he added dryly.

“Hmmm,” Solo said. “What do you plan to do for housing?”

“Plan? I live eight blocks from here.”

“I take you you haven’t heard the news, Illya.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You haven’t heard the fire trucks?”

“Yes - they were traveling down South Street a few hours ago.”

“Have you any idea where they were heading?”

“Come on, Napoleon. Get to the point.”

“We stopped by what we assumed was your apartment at 11th and South on the way over here. The firemen had just gotten the blaze under control.”

“What?”

“Your apartment house was torched.”

Illya turned quickly on his heels and ran to the living room windows. He leaned out of the remaining opened window and looked right, east, towards his apartment. The whirling red lights from the fire trucks bounced off other buildings within several hundred feet of his own.

The Russian closed the remaining windows, turned off his radio, and ran into the kitchen. Napoleon watched as Illya kicked off his paint-spattered workboots and stripped off his coveralls. He redressed in black jeans and turtleneck before slipping on his black shoes and lacing them up.

Without so much as a single word, Illya then ran down the stairs, followed closely by Napoleon Solo. Once the two men left the building, Kuryakin made sure the doors were locked before turning to run to his demolished apartment.

Solo stopped him. “It would be faster to drive,” he recommended, pointing to the black sedan with two other UNCLE agents parked along the curb.

Illya thought for a second and then nodded; it was the rational thing to do. The two men slid into the back seat of the sedan.

They drove to 12th and South Street in silence. Napoleon knew better than to press his former partner at the moment.  
Fire trucks and hoses and other equipment blocked South Street from 12th Street. They parked the sedan half a block from the barricades. Almost before the car stopped, Illya had his door open and was ready to jump out. Napoleon gently gripped his arm.

“That is not a good idea, my friend.”

Illya glowered at him. “And why not?”

“Thrush assumes you were in the house when they set the blaze. The initial police report states they found the body in one of the upstairs apartments, and since no one was living in the building other than you, they probably believe you had died.”

Kuryakin shook his head slowly. “That was Hector... an elderly homeless man I took in.” He paused for a few seconds. “If Thrush assumes I am dead, why go through the charade of bringing me back to New York? And... if Thrush were so intent on picking my brain again, why would they plan to kill me in my sleep? It makes no sense at all.”

“I doubt they knew someone else was living there, Illya. I assume they wanted to flush you out...alive. And, if we can figure out it wasn’t you in the building, so can Thrush.”

“Damn!” the Russian spat.

“There is nothing to salvage. The building is a total loss, unfortunately.”

Illya sighed. “Actually, there is something to salvage.” He paused and looked at Napoleon. “There is a stone fence in the backyard. On the back wall, about a meter from the right and a meter from the top is a loose stone. Behind the stone is a metalbox with all the possessions I chose to keep. It’s all I have left.”

Solo smiled wryly. “Wait here. I’ll see what I can do.”

The UNCLE agent got out of the car and opened the trunk. He rifled around in it and came back to Illya’s window with a clipboard and an attaché case. He tapped the board on the glass and winked, then turned to walk towards the demolished building.

Several fire trucks still lined South Street. As Napoleon passed the one furthest from the fire, he looked inside and found a hard hat. He indiscreetly pilfered it and placed it on his head before approaching Illya’s apartment.

As he neared Illya’s building, a fireman in complete regalia halted him.

“You can’t go in, sir. It’s not safe. Too many hot spots,” he said, resting his hand on Solo’s chest.

“I understand,” Napoleon said, reaching into his inside jacket pocket for a business card. He proffered his UNCLE card to the fireman. “My name is Napoleon Solo and I am with the ‘United Negotiable Claims and Liability Enterprise’.”

“U.N.C.L.E.?” the fireman asked, eyebrows raised.

“Yes. The bosses had a strange sense of humor,” Solo said with a straight face. “Anyway, I was sent here to look around the outside of the house for anything at all which may be evidentiary. I have no plans to go inside at this time.”

The fireman thought for a moment. He looked around. His men plus those from other fire companies who came to help were beginning to wrap up the scene. Several firemen brushed by hauling hoses back to their truck.

“I don’t know what you plan to find outside, Mr. Solo. We found the body of a male in one of the bedrooms, and that appears to be where the fire started. At this time, we can only assume that he fell asleep while smoking.”

“Did someone take photographs?”

“Yes. They’ll be processed in the morning.”

“Wonderful. I’ll need copies of them. I can contact your investigators tomorrow. But for now, I’d like to look around the outside of the building... front and back.”

The fireman nodded and let Napoleon Solo pass.

* * * * *

Fifteen minutes later, Solo returned to the black sedan, minus the hard hat, which he diligently returned to the fire truck he stole it from.

Napoleon opened the rear door and slid into the seat. He nodded to the driver to start the trip north to New York.

“Is this what you wanted?” the Solo asked, opening his attaché case. The box took up less than half the space of the attaché.

Illya took the metal box out of the case and nodded. “Thank you,” he said softly. He released the latch and opened the lid. It contained all the cash Illya had squirreled away while working in Philadelphia. Napoleon guestimated by the size of the wad and the denomination of the few bills showing that Illya had about $300.00 saved up.

Beneath the cash was Illya’s New York driver’s license, his UNCLE ID card, and a few pieces of jewelry Napoleon had seen his partner wear while they worked together.

The Russian sat quietly. His whole current life was summed up by the contents of this small metal box. Everything else was gone. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, refusing any communication with the three other men in the car during their trip to New York.


	2. Chapter 2

  
Illya Kuryakin waited impatiently in the outer foyer while Napoleon Solo brought a visitor’s badge for him to wear. He looked up and down the metallic chrome and pewter walls - he had taken many visitors to UNCLE in this waiting area during his tenure with the Command. It appeared not much had changed.

The receptionist was different, but still fit into the stereotype of UNCLE’s female staff - young, fit, well groomed. This particular woman was attractive, but less ‘beautiful’ than many of the staffers he had previously known. Perhaps UNCLE had grown with the times and realized that capable women need not be wrapped up in pretty packages.

“Here we go, my friend,” Solo chirped as he handed Illya a yellow badge. His own “11” badge was pinned to his jacket lapel.

The Russian took the badge - it was not his original number, 2, but then again, he was no longer employed by the Command.

“I assume we are off to see Mr. Waverly,” Kuryakin said as they exited the foyer.

“Correct,” Napoleon chuckled, patting his friend’s back. “Just like old times.”

“Just.” Illya muttered softly.

They walked the rest of the way to Alexander Waverly’s office in silence. Illya wasn’t sure whether or not he really wanted to go through with this. Although he had left UNCLE on good terms, he considered that chapter in his life past history.

Lisa Rogers was still at the helm of the Old Man’s office. Illya noticed she had aged a bit over the past two years, but was still as gracious and sweet as before.

“Good morning, Mr. Kuryakin,” she said as she stood to shake his hand.

Illya smiled back at her and clasped her hand in his two.

“How have you been, Miss Rogers?” the Russian asked, appreciating her warm welcome.

“Just wonderful. Things are always hopping around here, as you probably remember.”

“All too well, my dear.”

“Mr. Waverly is expecting the two of you,” she said as she settled back at her desk. As Lisa pushed the entry button on her console, the metal security door to Waverly’s office slid open.

Without a further word, the duo walked through its portal like they had done hundreds of times before.

Alexander Waverly was at his desk with the customary piles of file folders and documents surrounding him. He did not look up as they entered... he was in the midst of reading a report and did not want to be distracted.

Both Illya and Napoleon stood for a moment until they caught the Old Man’s eye. He looked up and raised his eyebrows at the sight of Illya, then smiled and slowly stood up to shake his former agent’s hand.

Kuryakin observed how difficult it was for Waverly to stand. The old war horse refused to be debilitated by his increasing age and pushed himself to appear strong. Apparently, this was the façade he chose to portray to his men and woman at UNCLE.

“This is quite a pleasure, Mr. Kuryakin,” he said with a hearty voice as they shook hands. The handshake was strong, unwavering. “It’s been what... two years?... since I’ve seen you last?” He paused a few seconds. “Please, gentlemen, have a seat.”

On cue, both Illya and Napoleon sat down.

Illya Kuryakin rather enjoyed seeing Alexander Waverly again. He had always revered and respected this man. Waverly was the reason he joined UNCLE over a decade before. The Old Man sought him out and persuaded him that with his talents, he could make a true difference in the world.

_The Russian’s tenure with UNCLE did prove to do just that. Although his apartment had had no certificates adorning its walls, he had not needed sheets of paper to validate all the good work he had done with the Command. Countless nefarious plots by Thrush and other evil doers had been thwarted thanks to him and Napoleon, as well as the other hard working UNCLE agents.  
_

_But keeping the world a safer place for humanity came with a price. He often did things he was not proud of, whether it be in the righteous name of UNCLE or not. He had no idea how many people he killed during that decade - surely the numbers were staggering. Both he and Napoleon knew it was for the greater good, but regardless, lives had been taken.  
_

_Illya would justify his actions by telling himself had it not been he who eliminated the bad guys, another agent would have done the job. It was the task at hand.  
_

_His turning point took place one morning while still laying in his own bed. He awoke in a haze of dull pain. The previous night he and Napoleon had been rescued from a Thrush stronghold after being vigorously questioned. Fortunately, the team found them before the interrogation was in full throttle.  
_

_The agents had been cleared by Medical that evening and were told they were free to leave. Both Solo and Kuryakin bid each other a good night and headed to their apartments. The following morning, the Russian did not want to get out of bed.  
_

_Illya lay beneath the covers and took stock of his life. He spent more time in various degrees of pain than in comfort. He chuckled slightly - apparently Thrush would take a fancy to him and not Napoleon, who many times walked away from an affair unscathed. He, on the other hand, would have had the stuffing knocked out of him or a plethora of drugs pumped into him, and be relegated to the obligatory stay in Medical.  
_

_All this had begun to wear thin. He knew there was a more normal life to be had - an existence where he did not have to constantly look over his should to see if the devil was on his tailcoats. It was that morning when he decided to make the change.  
_

_Kuryakin remembered walking into Mr. Waverly’s office uninvited with his letter of resignation in hand. The Old Man naturally tried talking him out of leaving, but the Russian was adamant. He explained his reasoning to his boss, and after a few more words, they shook hands and parted ways._

The Old Man silently sized up Illya for a moment before speaking. His Russian agent had not aged at all. He looked hail and hearty and in better condition than when they had last seen each other. Kuryakin’s blond hair was a little too long for his liking, but that was not of importance. Waverly inwardly chuckled at Illya’s attire - still wearing the black turtleneck.

“Interesting alias you’ve chosen for yourself, Mr. Kuryakin,” Alexander Waverly said.

“It was a little of my surname plus a foreign version of my patrynom. I felt that Korey was close to Kuryakin, and Nicksson for Nickovetch. People couldn’t figure out whether I was Dutch, South African, or Scandinavian. I could have used Nixon, like your beloved Richard Nixon... but considering the political climate at the moment, I chose a different spelling.”

Waverly cleared his throat. “True, True.” The Old Man paused a moment. “You must be wondering why I’ve asked you to return after two years,” he began.

Illya nodded. “Yes,Sir.”

“Communications intercepted chatter on the airways indicating that Thrush has been actively trying to find you for the past several months,” the Old Man said while leafing through one of the many manila folders on his desk. He found the one he wanted and flipped it open. After pulling out a series of photos from the folder, he fanned them out on his desk for the Russian to see.

“Mr. Solo did mention that to me... something about expandable force explosives...” Illya replied as he briefly scanned over the images on his former boss’ desk. The photos had apparently been taken over the past several months. They revealed pictures of Kuryakin leaving and entering his apartment on South Street with varying layers of outerwear. Several showed him swaddled in the heavy woolen coat he wore throughout the winter. The most recent photo showed him in the light windbreaker he had just purchased from a thrift store. Four of the photographs showed him entering other apartment buildings in his neighborhood. These were buildings he had been in the process of renovating.

“Precisely, Mr. Kuryakin. I believe you were working on several prototypes in our labs before resigning.”

“Yes, I was, Sir,” Illya responded. “My theories were that a silent, expandable force explosive could be created - one which would break down concrete, rock, or any other dense materials without the characteristics of a traditional explosive. There would be no blast.”

“So exactly how does that work?” Solo asked.

“I began creating a substance which would expand within a confined space, such as a hole drilled into concrete. Theoretically, it would expand with such force that it would literally split apart the areas confining it.”

Napoleon Solo wrinkled his nose. “I’m confused... why would your explosive substance stay in the hole as it expanded? Why not just bubble over the top rather than expand side-to-side?”

A slight smile crossed Illya’s lips. “That was the problem I tried to solve. I was in the middle of working on it when I resigned. But I left all my notes and theories intact so someone could continue were I left off.”

“Therein lies the problem, Illya,” Napoleon chimed in. “We have your notes, but everyone who has attempted to work on it can’t make heads or tails of it.”

Kuryakin bristled. He was, after all, a perfectionist, and his notes were perfectly legible and understandable to whomever had the credentials to follow in his footsteps. Napoleon saw his subtle change in demeanor.

Solo held up his hands to ward off the Ice Prince’s snit. “Don’t get me wrong, Illya. You left everything in great condition for the next guy, but there was no ‘next guy’ who could finish what you started.”

The Russian nodded. A slight flush of pride flowed through him. “So you would like me to complete the project I left two years ago?”

“Yes, Mr. Kuryakin,” Alexander Waverly answered. “And you are probably wondering what that has to do with Thrush.”

“That was my next question, Sir.”

“Er....may I, Mr. Waverly,” Solo interrupted.

The Old Man nodded, inwardly pleased with Napoleon taking the initiative. He was beginning to feel his age and appreciated when his heir-to-the-throne stepped in.

“About six months ago we had a security leak,” Napoleon began. “A new member of Section 8, who was thoroughly screened before being allowed to enter UNCLE...or so we thought...turned out to be a plant from Thrush. She had a doctorate in quantum physics, as you do, and we felt she would be an invaluable resource.”

“Unfortunately,” Waverly added, “she was also an invaluable resource for Thrush. Her name is Isabel Reiner. It turns out she was one of their up-and-coming scientists. While trying to complete your expandable force explosive theories for us, Dr. Reiner also garnered information from your files and passed it to her superiors at Thrush. They assumed, as we did, that she would be able to complete your project.”

“Once we discovered her duplicity,” Napoleon Solo continued, “we interrogated her and found that she came up empty handed with Thrush as well. She basically fell from grace with her Thrush handlers.”

“What did Thrush do with her once she was discovered?” Kuryakin asked, knowing that Thrush has little tolerance for failure.  
Solo chuckled slightly. “They had invested a lot of time and resources in training Dr. Reiner. Rumor has it she has become a lab assistant in their research and development department, but gradually working her way up the ranks.”

Illya Kuryakin nodded. “And exactly how does this impact on me?”

The Old Man ‘harumphed’. “My. Kuryakin, we would like to rejoin us and finish the project you started two years ago. As far as we know, Thrush has been as unsuccessful as we have. No one seems to have your same vision for the expandable force explosives.”

Solo looked at Illya and waggled his eyebrows. “Well? Whaddaya say?”

Kuryakin took a deep breath as he considered his options. One side of him was glad to be rid of the spy-versus-spy game... to sleep at night knowing no one had plans to kill him the following day. The other side of him missed the excitement of working with UNCLE. And he missed Napoleon Solo more than he cared to admit.

He looked up and smiled a little. “I will do it. But once I am done I plan to slip back into oblivion.”

“Thank you, Mr. Kuryakin!” Waverly said. “I appreciate you coming out of ‘retirement’ to lend us a hand with this.”

After a few more moments of small talk, Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin left Alexander Waverly’s inner sanctum. The duo walked to Solo’s new office which was located closer to Waverly’s and housed the latest surveillance and communications technology. He did not, though, have the perk of a personal secretary. Not yet.

During the morning meeting with Mr. Waverly, Illya had a chance to sit back and observe his former partner. Napoleon Solo was still fit, and even through the cut of his tailored suit, still muscular. A few wrinkles graced his handsome face, and several thatches of gray wove their way through his full head of dark hair. He looked great - hail and hearty.

“Apparently all the grooming for this position has paid off,” Illya mused as he inspected each and every piece of equipment.

“As you can see, his health is beginning to fail. I’ve been taking over little by little during the past year.”

Illya looked him in the eye. “And how do you feel about that?”

“It’s a change, Illya. I’m on the edge of 40, and by UNCLE code, will no longer be eligible as a field agent shortly. Yes... he has been grooming me for this position for quite some time. The prospect of running UNCLE North America is a bit harrowing, but I’ve been spending a lot of time working with him lately and in all honesty, I feel I can do it.”

“’Feel’ or ‘know’?”

Napoleon flashed one of his more disarming smiles. “One never truly knows until it happens, eh?”

“I guess you’re right.” Illya paused a moment, tapping the fingers of his right hand on Napoleon’s desk. “How exactly did you find me? I tried my damnedest to drop out of sight.”

“We actually have Thrush to thank for that. It was they who found you first. Honestly, I don’t know how they did it, unless one of their agents who knew you literally bumped into you. We had tried for months. And yes -you were pretty successful. There was no evidence you were even still alive. You had no phone, no credit cards, no bank accounts, no driver’s license. Your Social Security number remained unused. We were under the assumption you changed your name and left the country, which, of course, didn’t help at all.”

The Russian sighed. “I guess I am lucky you found me first. At least UNCLE gave me the option of going back to work on the expandable force explosives. I doubt Thrush would have given me much of a choice.”

“Yes, you are correct,” Napoleon chuckled. “When we got hold of their surveillance photos, we had our experts analyze them for traits particular to any given city. They narrowed it down to Philadelphia in general, then narrowed it down further to the eleven hundred block of South Street.”

“Lucky me,” Kuryakin commented dryly. “I rather did like going about my business in complete anonymity. Deep inside, I always knew the day would come when my identity would be discovered.”

Solo clapped his hands. “Well, let’s figure out what to do next. We need to do some short term planning.”

“Like where I’m going to live?”

“Yes, that’s the main one. You have several options. You can take up residence in one of our onsite apartments. As you well remember, they’re small and utilitarian. They lack warmth. They’re constantly under surveillance.”

“Or I can rent an apartment with a short term lease.”

“Yes. That’s another option,” Napoleon agreed. He paused a few seconds. “Or you can come stay with me. I have plenty of room and lots of food. I do believe I’ve even kept a bottle of vodka in the freezer just in case we ever crossed paths at some point.”

A broad smile covered the Russian’s face. “How could I refuse such a gracious offer?”

  
* * * * *

It took less than half an hour to arrive at Napoleon Solo’s doorstep. Traffic was light for late-morning Manhattan and they managed to get most of the green lights. They rolled down all the windows to revel in the warm mid-May air. Most of the trip was spent in companionable silence. The men both knew they would have plenty of time to fill in the other on what had been happening in their lives once Illya settled in.

As Illya entered the elevator to his friend’s penthouse apartment, he realized he had no personal belongings in tow. It did not bother him - he had survived with less.

Napoleon opened his door and motioned for Illya to enter before turning off his alarm system. The door closed behind them and he reset the code.

“Home sweet home,” Solo mused as he led the way into the living room.

Illya looked around. Not much had changed in two years. The beautiful silk sofa had several new pillows, and upon first notice, the Russian did see a newly acquired painting on the wall. Beyond that, it looked the same as the last time he graced Solo’s apartment with his presence.

“Are you hungry?” Napoleon asked, already knowing the answer.

“Need you ask? I have not yet had a proper breakfast.”

Solo chuckled. “A proper breakfast it is! Please - make yourself at home. Oh...” the CEA paused a second - “...let me show you to the guest room first.”

He escorted the Russian, although Illya knew the way. They walked across the living room to the second bedroom. Napoleon opened the door and ushered in his friend.

Illya Kuryakin stopped in his tracks. His jaw dropped slightly at the sight. He scanned the room and turned back towards Napoleon.

“How did you.... I mean....um.....” Kuryakin was at a loss for words. He gazed over the contents of the room again. Shelves of his books and records lined the wall. His old stereo system sat upon one of the shelves, its clear plastic lid raised waiting for an LP to be placed on the spindle. The two lamps he had left behind stood on end tables surrounding the bed. His old comforter lay atop the mattress.

Solo put his arm around Illya’s shoulders. “I couldn’t let UNCLE’s clean up crew ditch all your worldly goods, my friend. So before they closed down your apartment, I boxed up your belongings and kept them in storage.”

He motioned for Illya to open the closet. Kuryakin smiled when he saw the clothing he had left behind. Several suits along with more casual clothes hung neatly on hangers. Several pairs of shoes and sneakers were lined up on the floor. Illya walked over to the dresser and opened its drawers. The underwear and socks and sweaters he had left behind were folded.

“I...I don’t know what to say, Napoleon.” The Russian was visible touched. “Thank you for doing this.” He never expected any of his belongs to be salvaged. “I guess this solves the problem of finding a change of clothes.”

“You’re welcome,” Napoleon said as he turned to leave the room. “I’m glad to finally take all of this out of storage. Now...about breakfast...”

  
Napoleon put together a veritable feast of perfectly scrambled eggs, sausage links and bacon. While the food was sizzling in the frying pans, he cut and squeezed fresh oranges in his juicer and poured its contents into two large tumblers. Illya set the table and toasted the bread. All the while, a pot of coffee perked on the stove.

It had been so long since Illya was a guest in someone’s house that he had forgotten how nice it was. He had lived sparsely the past two years, streamlining his existence into complete utilitarianism. No frills, no luxuries, except for the few occasions he treated himself to a night at a jazz club.

The food was arranged on Napoleon’s china plates and brought to the table. The aroma of freshly cooked food caused Illya’s mouth to water and his stomach to rumble. The Russian had the courtesy of at least placing the linen napkin on his lap before diving headfirst into his breakfast.

“This is wonderful, Napoleon,” Illya said between mouthfuls. “I can’t remember the last time I had a home-cooked breakfast quite this extraordinary.”

“My pleasure. I was hoping you’d decide to come home with me,” Solo responded while he cut his sausage links into smaller pieces. “I’ve really missed you these past few years.”

Kuryakin nodded. “As I have missed you.”

“I’ve been partnered with several others since you left, and broke in a few rookies, too. They’re good agents... but they lacked .... we lacked... what I had while working with you.”

“You’re not going to try and talk me into returning full time, are you?” Illya mused. “I do believe I’ve had my fill of the spy game.”

“Wouldn’t dream it if, Illya. I’m -er - we’re glad you’re coming back to finish the explosives project. Take all the time you need, my friend, and when you’re finished, we will let you slither back into anonymity. We’ll even help you this time if you like.”

Illya chuckled. “Thank you, no - I can do that very nicely on my own. But it won’t be Philadelphia this time... that I can assure you.”

During the remainder of their breakfast, Illya detailed his reasons for resigning. His eyes turned downcast at one point when he apologized for not telling his partner that he was leaving UNCLE. The only defense he had was that he wanted to make a completely clean break, thus protecting himself as well as Napoleon should Thrush eventually take an interest in him again.

The Russian also confessed that he dearly missed Napoleon’s company. Throughout the many years they worked together as a team, the brotherhood and friendship they forged was the hardest thing to leave behind.

“If the position of Section 2 Agent was the issue,” Napoleon mentioned after hearing his former partner’s reasoning, “ why not just request a transfer to Section 8?”

“Come on, Napoleon. You know as well as I that Section 2 never really ‘leaves’ you. I would always have that little voice in the back of my head taunting me to return to the field.”

“So I guess a clean break was in order. I can definitely understand your rationale.” Solo stood up to start clearing the table.

“But it did leave a void for UNCLE, and personally, for me as well,” he added softly.

Both Napoleon and Illya spent the rest of the day relaxing and filling in the details of their lives for the past two years. By early evening, the Russian could no longer stay awake. He thanked Solo for his hospitality and headed off to the guest room for a good night’s sleep.

  
  
The following morning was spent at UNCLE headquarters. Like any new employee, there was paperwork to be completed and filed, a medical examination, and an orientation concerning the changes to the Command since Illya Kuryakin had left.

After the mandatory protocol, Illya was sent to see Dr. Marc LaBan, who would complete the final stage of Illya’s re-entry to UNCLE.

Kuryakin walked in to his office.

The doctor stood and extended his hand. Illya smiled slightly and accepted.

“Well, well, Mr. Kuryakin. It’s been years since I’ve been graced with your presence,” he mused. Not a whole lot of ‘love’ had passed between these two men.

“Yes, it has been a while, Doctor.”

LaBan motioned for Illya to take a seat directly across from his desk. “Please - sit down. Tell me what you’ve been up to lately.”

Kuryakin smirked inwardly. Dr. Marc LaBan was one of UNCLE’s psychiatrists. His job was to assure the agents’ mental stability. This was the part of his orientation he most dreaded.

“To be honest, Marc, I’ve lived a humdrum, boring life for the past few years.”

The psychiatrist’s eyebrows raised. “Go on.”

“I traveled a bit at first, then settled in Philadelphia. I found a job renovating old homes for a man who bought up derelict properties, then sold them for a hefty profit once I was finished.”

“During this time, you had no contact with UNCLE or any of its agents?”

“None at all. My goal was to drop off the radar screen.”

“You were actually quite successful until Thrush took an interest in finding you.”

Kuryakin shrugged. “All good things must come to an end. I assumed at some point my past would catch up with me.”

“And that is why you’re here, Mr. Kuryakin. We fortunately got to you first, but there is always the possibility that Thrush will find you as well, you know. When you were an active agent, we had conditioned you as a safeguard in case of capture. I would like to do that again.”

With a sigh, Illya nodded in agreement.

“It will be minimal, since you are no longer a Section 2 agent. But we find it necessary to condition you nevertheless.”

“Then let’s get to it,” Illya said, standing with the doctor to go into his inner office.

  
By late afternoon, the Russian was on the elevator to the labs in Section 8 to continue work on his expandable force explosive theories.

As he exited the elevator and peered through the numerous glass panels to the labs, a flush of excitement spread through him. It had been several years since he had really challenged himself mentally. His work, since resigning from UNCLE, had been blue collar manual labor. Much of it was almost mind numbing, which, looking back, was his goal. He squared his shoulders and put the two years behind him, now ready to flex the gray matter for the benefit of the greater good. A slight smile crossed his lips as he entered his lab.

Whoever prepared the lab for him had apparently read his copious notes and placed what he or she felt would be needed to begin at his disposal. The notes he had left for his successors were placed in a manila file folder and left on the center table. Several of the materials outlined in his notes were readily available, as well as safety equipment, protective clothing, and goggles.

No lab assistant stood about. This, also, was to his liking. He had to re-introduce himself to his own theories and figure out where he had left off several years back. The last thing he needed was another person in the room annoying the hell out of him by asking ‘What should I do?’.

After putting on his lab coat and black rimmed glasses, Illya Kuryakin closed the door to his lab and got to work.


	3. Chapter 3

**5 Weeks Later**

  
Napoleon Solo peered through the glass to Illya’s lab before entering. He smiled to himself as he watched his former partner working. The Russian was hunched over a thick steel box which appeared to be roughly a four foot cube. Napoleon could not see what was inside, but whatever it was, was about to have a thick syrupy substance poured into it.

Illya stood above the cube holding a funnel in his left hand, the beaker in his right. He sensed prying eyes and looked over his shoulder, through the plate glass. When he saw Napoleon, he motioned with his head for the CEA to enter.

“And just what do we have here?” Napoleon chirped as he neared Illya.

“Hopefully a success!” Kuryakin said. “Oh, before I pour this, please put on protective goggles. I’ve had quite a few mishaps in the past, and for all I know, this may just as well be one of them.”

Once Solo donned the goggles, Kuryakin poured the thick substance into the funnel. Napoleon observed a large irregularly shaped slab of cement inside the steel cube. Several holes had been drilled into it, near the center. Illya began filling each of the holes less than a quarter full of the formula.

While the thick formula was dripping from the beaker, Solo reached into his pants pocket and took out his penknife. He opened the blade and before Illya could see what he was doing, placed the knife’s tip in the substance’s stream. The syrupy brown formula began to bubble and sizzle on the metal.

“What on earth are you doing, Napoleon!” Kuryakin snapped as he slapped the back of the CEA’s hand, causing the knife to drop besides the concrete in the steel cube. “It’s highly caustic. This formula does not react well to metal! ”

“Apparently not. Hmmm - well, that’s one really good penknife down the drain.”

The Russian muttered something guttural under his breath and finished pouring the formula into the concrete’s holes.

Instinctively, Napoleon stepped back a little once Illya was done.

The Russian smiled. “Not yet, Napoleon. I have to add the secret ingredient.” Illya held another bottle with a milky white substance in it. With an eye dropper, he introduced four drops of the fluid into each of the holes. “Now you may step back if you wish.”

They watched as wisps of smoke rose from each of the holes. The combination of materials melded together and began expanding. Within a moment, the formula was within an inch of the top of the hole, bubbling ever so slightly.

Illya took notes on his clipboard as the two materials reacted with each other. He smiled and nodded ever so slightly when it stopped expanding near the rim. So far so good - this one did not bubble over. He placed his hand near the holes to feel the heat generated by the combination of materials. He nodded again and wrote more notes on his clipboard.

What the duo heard next made the Russian smile broadly. A series of loud ‘cracks’ proceeded physical fissures in the concrete, stemming from the holes containing the mixed formula to the exterior edges. The fissures soon expanded, causing the concrete to fall apart into large chucks. It was clean, silent, safe.

“By George, I think you’ve done it!” Napoleon panned, giving Illya a congratulatory slap on the back.

“I do believe I have!” Illya wrote a few more notes on his pad. He gave his experiment a close inspection, gently separating the pieces of cement with a wooden dowel to see the condition of the formula.

It appeared that the mixture he created expanded laterally, putting horizontal pressure on whatever it touched. The substance generated a sizable amount of heat, leaving the concrete extremely warm.

Both he and Napoleon took apart each section of demolished concrete and inspected them. The debris maintained its integrity. The concrete was neither mushy nor unstable. Each chunk, despite a little pulverized dust, was as hard as the original piece of concrete itself. Satisfied that this was his first true success, Illya removed his goggles, wrote a few final notes on his clipboard, and began putting things away.

“Well, this calls for a celebration!” Napoleon said, clapping his hands.

“That would be nice. Thank you. I just need to clean up here a little then we can leave.”

“What can I do to help you?”

“Nothing, really, Napoleon. It won’t take me very long.”

Illya busied himself with putting things away, labeling things that needed labeling, cleaning off table tops, extinguishing and clearing off bunsen burners. He gathered up all his notes for the day, scribbled a quick code at the top of the page, then placed it in a locked file cabinet.

“Do you keep all your notes?... or do you destroy the ones which failed?” Napoleon asked.

“I keep everything. Should something not work in the future, I can always refer to that particular mistake in my old files and see what I did to subsequently correct it.” Illya took a few files from his cabinet and showed them to Napoleon. He leafed through one or two and pulled them out.

“See this one?” the Russian asked. The file had had a notation of ‘UF9’ at the top. “This particular one was highly volatile. It did far more damage than others I tried.. Fortunately, I conducted the trial behind a protective barrier. I doubt I would have had much of my hide left intact otherwise.”

“’UF9’?”

“’Unstable Formula 9’ - apparently this was my ninth failure. Mundane denotation, but it works for me.”  
Solo chuckled. “I guess it could have been construed as ‘Usable Formula 9’ as well.”

“Well, it’s not. There were several others almost as bad, but this one was the worst. For all intents and purposes, the formula looks good on paper, even to the trained eye. But there are nuances within the chemical formula which just don’t work. As a matter of fact, this one is so unstable, it’s downright dangerous... so ‘UF9” was a failure. Perhaps I can develop it onto something usable in the future.”

The CEA wrinkled up his nose. “Well, if it’s that unstable, I don’t know.....”

“I said I could ‘develop’ it - surely you don’t think I would even pawn off a prototype if I didn’t think it was usable and safe.”  
Within ten minutes, Illya Kuryakin had cleared his work area, cleaned up, and locked away his files. “Now, about that celebration...”

Napoleon dined with Illya at one of his favorite Italian Restaurants. The weather was balmy for a late June evening. The duo decided to park the car in the underground garage beneath Solo’s apartment building and walk several blocks to the restaurant, taking in the pleasant air and comfortable companionship.

“Well, it looks as though you’re almost through with the project,” Napoleon said over their second glass of wine and the eggplant rolatini appetizer.

“Yes. All I need are a few refinements and finishing touches, and my work here is complete.”

“Hmmm... pity.”

Kuryakin chuckled. He had re-accustomed himself to working at UNCLE, and felt a slight twinge of regret at his choice to leave when the job was done. During the past several weeks he had mulled over the idea of remaining with the Command a bit longer, but never mentioned it to Napoleon. Perhaps this could be the time to approach the subject.

“Napoleon...I...um...have been giving a little thought to staying on with UNCLE.” The Russian watched his former partner’s eyes brighten and a smile cross his face. “That is, of course, if Mr. Waverly will accept my application for re-employment.”

“Did you honestly think there would be any doubt?” Solo asked, his pulse racing slightly. He had hoped his prickly Russian friend would make this decision.

“Well, I have been out of... how do you say it..... the ‘loop’ for quite a while. I realize this temporary position made me, in essence, a consultant. I assume regaining full employment would be more difficult, so...”

Solo cut him off. “Consider it done, my friend. If you want to work in Section 8, that can be arranged. If you would prefer to re-enter Section 2, I’ll see we get that under way. And if you prefer Section 3, that’s do-able as well. You name it.”

“Let me sleep on it and we can discuss this further at headquarters in the morning.”

The following morning found Illya Kuryakin and Napoleon Solo sitting at Alexander Waverly’s large, round table. As usual, the Old Man was seated in front a myriad of manila folders and newspapers from around the globe.

“Yes, yes, gentlemen,” he said as he tamped down the tobacco in his unlit pipe. “This is good news... a rarity these days, if I must say so.” He paused a moment and rotated his table top’s lazy susan, placing the mass of folders and newspapers in front of Napoleon. Unseen by his boss, Napoleon curled up his nose slightly. This was not his favorite part of preparing to take the helm. “So, Mr. Kuryakin, what led you to this decision?”

Illya smiled ever so slightly. “I missed the work, Sir. In all honestly, I did not realize how much I missed it until I continued working on my experiments. The mental challenge is quite stimulating, you realize.”

A silent snort came from Napoleon.

“Well, young man, your talents are many. What section of UNCLE would you like to return to?”

“Section 8, preferably.” Illya leaned forward, closer to his boss. “In the process of finishing the expandable force explosive, I came up with a few prototypes for regular explosives and incendiary devices which I feel could benefit agents in the field. I rather prefer this line of work to Section 2 at the moment.” He smiled sheepishly. “That is, of course, unless you have walls in need of painting...”

The Old Man chuckled. “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Kuryakin. I’ve grown quite accustomed to gunmetal gray. No need for upkeep or touchups.” He stood up and extended his hand to the Russian. “Section 8 it is.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“You realize, of course,” Napoleon chimed in. “...we need to clear you with Medical to make sure you’re in tiptop shape, plus all the necessary paperwork.”

“No problem, Napoleon. I appreciate your hospitality these past few weeks, but somewhere along the line I will need to look for my own apartment.”

Mr. Waverly reached across to Napoleon’s pile of folders and thumbed through a few, grasping one in particular. He handed it to Illya. “Here is a list of sanctioned, secured apartments I’ve put together for you. Look through them and see if any one meets your needs.”

An awkward moment of silence hung in the air. Illya was taken aback by Waverly’s forethought. Did the Old Man assume he would stay on after the project’s completion? Did Napoleon mention it to him? Inwardly, he was deeply touched. “Thank you, Mr. Waverly. I will peruse the file later on this afternoon.”

Illya Kuryakin stood up to leave, aware that Napoleon remained seated to work on the pile of file folders he recently inherited.

The Russian knew that Solo’s tenure in the field was coming to an end, and his new position within the Command was budding. A slight sense of remorse flooded him, saddened by the realization that their jobs as Section 2 agents, as the dynamic team they had been, were now behind him. The Russian nodded to his two superiors, squared his shoulders, and left the Inner Sanctum.

Kuryakin made the mandatory visits to Medical and Personnel to shore up his re-employment with UNCLE. When finished, and realizing there was nothing pressing at the moment, he headed back to Napoleon’s apartment to begin packing. He checked his watch - a little after eleven in the morning.

En route, he stopped at a hardware store, a card shop, and a liquor store. He returned to the apartment with several small parcels, a bottle of the finest vodka he could find, and as many nested empty liquor boxes as his arms could hold.

Before packing - his task at hand - he stopped by the kitchen table to wrap a small gift for Napoleon and wrote a note of thanks.

He stayed at Napoleon’s penthouse apartment for the better part of three hours before deciding he needed to return to UNCLE to finish up a few details on his expandable force explosive project.

Nothing much seemed to have changed at Headquarters during Illya’s absence of several years. True - there were new faces, and several of the existing ones had aged slightly. And the technology they now used far out performed what had been there during his tenure... but the overall feeling was the same - busy, like a beehive. People moved about with a fluidity of purpose with little or no wasted effort. The tone was still serious, as was the Command’s mission to protect the world at large. Yes, Illya Kuryakin was glad to be back. He was even assigned his old #2 badge, allowing him free reign of Headquarters.

Illya detoured to Napoleon’s new office before heading back to his lab in Section 8. It was empty. The Russian smirked slightly realizing Napoleon was probably still in Waverly’s office keeping up to snuff on conditions around the world, and who may be in need of UNCLE’s assistance - Thrush activities, as well. It humored Illya that now his former partner was neck-deep in the paperwork he generally had passed on to him.

He reached into his jacket pocket and removed the small gift he had wrapped for Napoleon. The desk had several piles of paper on the surface, plus a few non-classified documents. Illya looked around to find the optimum place for his gift before deciding to leave it on the desk chair.

The Russian entered his lab, checked and re-checked his notes before safely tucking them away in the locked file cabinet. He tidied up a bit and then decided to call it a day. Before leaving, he turned around to survey his domain... and once pleased that it was in tiptop shape, he shut the lights and slid through the pneumatic door.

By 4 o’clock, he was leaving Del Floria’s tailor shop.

* * * * *

  
Napoleon Solo returned to his apartment shortly after 10 o’clock at night. He had expected to see Illya packing boxes, or lounging on the sofa, vodka in hand, listening to jazz recordings, or reading a scientific journal. It surprised him to find the apartment empty. He walked through his domain to find several boxes packed and labeled, with the remaining ones partially filled with Illya’s belongings.

Solo poured himself scotch on the rocks and sat down in utter exhaustion. It had been a difficult day trying to save the world from the confines of Alexander Waverly’s office. He debated which was harder - dodging a barrage of bullets or trying to keep the world safe from a secured office.

Slightly after midnight, Napoleon sensed that something was wrong. Before leaving headquarters, he had checked Illya’s lab to see if he was working late. The room had been dark. Solo switched on the light to find the lab neat and tidy, ready for the next day’s work.

When Napoleon had seen Illya earlier in the day, the Russian made no mention of going out that night. Perhaps, Solo told himself, he had a change of plans and needed to unwind at a jazz club in The Village.

By 3 am, Napoleon was definitely worried. He reluctantly activated his pen communicator and asked Headquarters to patch him through to Kuryakin. Solo waited a few moments for a response, but none came. A second call was made to Headquarters, requesting a trace on Illya’s communicator.

“We have a location!” Samantha from Communications relayed to Napoleon. “Good thing he kept his communicator active.” She paused a second or two. “Er... Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin’s communicator is located about half a block from your apartment building...”

After hearing the street coordinates from Samantha, Napoleon grabbed his holster and gun and ran to the spot where Illya’s communicator was sending its signal. There was no one in sight at the location. He again called Headquarters and requested being patched through to Illya. This time he heard the distinctive beep. It was coming from an alleyway between two buildings.

Solo followed the sound, which led him to several galvanized steel garbage cans and a pile of filled trash bags. He zeroed in to where the beeps emanated, only to find the communicator nestled between the bags, but no Russian in sight.

He called Headquarters one final time. “I think we have a problem....”

* * * * *

The sensation of being in motion began to rouse Illya Kuryakin. At first there was the groggy feeling of coming out of a deep sleep. As the moments ticked on, he became acutely aware of his situation.

It was surrounded by inky darkness with a horrible clawing airlessness. He had difficulty breathing, as though something covered his face, dusty particles tickling his nose.

His eyes burned through closed eyelids. He slowly opened them, peering through slim slits only to find the darkness remained. Moving his head slightly, he realized that a rough sack-like hood covered his head. He was bound. His arms were tethered behind him and he was lying on his back. His shoulders ached. Shifting his body slightly, he found that his ankles were secured as well.

It did not take long to realize his situation. He felt the floorboards of a truck or van beneath his back and the rocking movement cued him that they were in motion. The road below was smooth, like a highway, and they were traveling at a pretty fast clip.

His mind raced trying to remember how he ended up in this situation. He thought back to his last actions - he had left headquarters, heading back to Napoleon’s apartment. It was late in the afternoon, but still daylight - a scuffle in an alleyway caught his attention. A young woman was being assaulted by a thief. He remembered coming to her aid, only to find that the couple stepped apart as he neared, and several other large, ominous looking men seemed to appear out of thin air. He was immediately surrounded and brought to the ground.

Instinctively, he curled into a ball once down and tried rolling away, hoping to spring back on his feet and either fight or flee. Quickly, very quickly, deft hands pulled a black burlap sack over his head and secured it around his neck. The last thing he remembered was the distinctive sweet scent of chloroform causing his world to blacken.

It was impossible to determine how long he had been unconscious. He knew that chloroform sedates its victim anywhere from moments to hours, depending on its concentration. Knowing Thrush, they probably used a very potent form, leaving Illya to assume he had been unconscious for quite a while.

He strained to garner clues about his situation. No voices were heard, leaving him to assume there was a solo driver or he was in the back cab of a vehicle. There were very few ambient road sounds - no cars honking or zooming past him. The speed of the vehicle was constant, indicating they were traveling without much traffic - perhaps late at night.

Deducing he was alone, the Russian drastically shifted his position to lay on his side. It had not been that many years before when he found himself in such predicaments, but he sorely remembered the brutality he had suffered at Thrush’s hands. He was relieved when no one punched or kicked him, or hit him with the butt of a rifle. Yes, he was alone.

“Damn!” he grumbled to himself. A wave of anger flowed through him. Situations like this had prompted him to leave UNCLE.

After only a few moments on his side, he returned to the position of lying on his back. Illya relaxed his shoulders and planted his feet firmly on the floor. Raising his hips, he began wriggling his bound wrists under his buttocks. It took only a few tries before they were behind his thighs. With his back again on the floor, he brought his knees to his chest and slipped his feet through.

With his hands now bound in front of him, Kuryakin removed the hood which covered his head. Cooler, fresher air washed over his face. It felt invigorating. He looked around at his environs - he was in the back of a truck, just as he had assumed. It was dark, with a periodic faint stream of light coming through the cracks of the door’s seams from perhaps street lights along the highway. From what he could gauge, he was the rear compartment of a medium size truck. And, like he assumed, there was no one in there to stand guard over him.

He next used his teeth to unknot the ropes binding his wrists. Once his hands were freed, he quickly sat up and untied the ropes surrounding his ankles.

Illya stood up on legs a little shakier than he had anticipated and made his way to the rear of the truck with halting steps. He felt around for the handle of the door but was not overly surprised when the was none. After a few futile moments of trying to get the door open, Illya moved to the side of the truck and slid down the wall.

An indeterminable amount of time had passed before the truck began slowing down. It veered to the right and traveled downward slightly, as if taking an exit ramp from the highway. At what felt like the bottom of the ramp, the vehicle came to a halt with its engine still running. Illya assumed they were at a red light. He was correct, and a moment later the truck continued its journey.After several more moments of turns on the road and periodic stops, the truck came to a halt. The engine was shut off before a pair of doors opened and slammed shut. By the time footsteps were moving toward the back of the truck, Kuryakin was in a low crouching position, ready to strike once the doors opened.

A intense light flooded into the truck as the doors opened, blinding the Russian. His hands instinctively rose to shield his eyes. Several men... he subconsciously counted four, entered the back of the truck to subdue him before he even had a chance to defend himself.

One of the men brought him to the floor while another pinned him down with a knee to his spine. Hands deftly grasped his wrists and pulled them across his back, handcuffing him. Illya was then bodily lifted and brought to his feet.

The blaring light still obscured Kuryakin’s vision, but he was able to make out the silhouettes of several people waiting for him beyond the truck’s door. The blackish men took firm hold of him once he was taken outside and stood him on the ground. After his egress, the light was turned off.

The crew of captors lead Illya to what looked like the service entrance of a four storey office building. His mind raced, trying to make sense of his environment for the short while it took to reach the door. Nothing at all looked familiar. In the dim light of the receiving area, he did manage to make out a sign posted above the door: ‘Sterling and Company - Imports and Exports’.

One factor was entirely too familiar. The uniforms of the men who abducted him all had a bird patch on the left sleeve. Thrush.  
He looked down at his body. While unconscious, Thrush had divested him of his clothing and outfitted him in a pale gray coverall. They had apparently searched his body for any hidden defensive devices like in the ‘old days’. They must have been duly disappointed when they found none.

“We’re here,” one of the guards announced into intercom.

A loud buzz sounded as the door was unlocked from within the building. Wordlessly, the men and Illya Kuryakin went through its threshold and into a drab holding area. The Russian looked around. The room was completely utilitarian. A window to the right of their entryway was dark and had its blinds drawn. Illya assumed that in a legitimate business, a receptionist would be stationed there to greet clients or business associates. The walls were a pale gray. Stains branched down from one section of the ceiling which had obviously sustained water damage. Nothing adorned the walls except for a poster listing rules set forth by management.

The thought of staging an escape crossed Kuryakin’s mind, but this was neither the time nor place. He was vastly outnumbered and bound and realized that he was not in the same top form he had been two years earlier as an active UNCLE agent.Although still lithe and strong, the Russian decided that discretion was the better part of valor. He would wait.

Two doors were on opposing walls of the holding area. A pair of elevators stood on the wall in-between. The Thrushmen stood patiently until one of the elevator doors swished open. Wordlessly, the guards pushed Illya into the elevator before entering themselves. The man closest to the control panel pressed the button for the fourth floor.

Illya looked at the sea of Thrushmen surrounding him and sighed. He had hoped this aspect of his former career was well behind him. The agent knew that in this line of work, your past is never just that - the past.

A shiver went through him. When he rejoined The Command, he had not been fully conditioned against interrogation like regular Section 2 agents. If interrogated - if tortured - he would be more susceptible to Thrush’s drugs and barbaric treatment. Hopefully the conditioning Marc LaBan gave him would suffice until he either escaped or was rescued.

The elevator door opened out to the main hallway with a series of perpendicular hallways branching from both sides. Illya was herded down the length of the main hallway to a large, impressive office with a solid maple door and a bank of windows on either side.

One of the Thrushmen knocked on the door. It buzzed before he opened it to announce that he had Illya Kuryakin.  
Two tall, muscular men in black suits and thin ties appeared in the doorway and brought the Russian inside. The door slid shut with what sounded like a vacuum seal.  
  
“Sit!” snapped the taller of the two, a brusque man with short graying hair.

Illya maintained a façade of composure as he was forced into a chair by the door. Deep inside, he feared for his safety, maybe even his life. The two men took their positions on either side of him.

An attractive woman in a very tailored suit sat behind a receptionist’s desk in the center of the room, smiling and nodding as Kuryakin entered. She pressed a button on what Illya assumed was an intercom to announce his arrival.

A cursory surveillance of his surroundings revealed the room had warm, dark wooden furniture with rather nice accents. The lighting was soft, comfortable. Pale cream paint and a few decent silkscreen and lithographic prints adorned the walls. Several plants stood around the perimeter of the room. The room had obviously been carefully designed with almost a feminine touch. Off to the right was another door - perhaps belonging to the person in charge.

“You may bring in him,” relayed a female voice from the intercom.

On cue, the two men in black suits grasped Kuryakin’s arms and brought him to his feet before escorting him through the door to the inner office.

Illya’s keen eyes scanned the room in the matter of seconds. The decor was as well put together as the outer office. The colors were pleasant - gentle mauves with white trim. Recessed lighting in the ceiling cast a comfortable glow on the accouterments and large, impressionistic paintings which hung in gilded frames. Plants had been placed at strategic points, adding a sense of life to the windowless room. A bookcase dominated the entire right hand wall, filled to the brim with tomes sitting on the white lacquered shelves.

An oversized mahogany desk stood angled towards the back wall on the left hand side. Two leather armchairs faced the desk. The woman sitting behind the desk stood as Illya and the two black clad men came in.

Other than the door by which they had entered, there were no other visible means of egress.

“Hello, Dr. Kuryakin,” she greeted, extending her hand to shake his. To not seem impolite, Illya accepted her gesture. “My name is Isabel Reiner. I’m glad to finally make your acquaintance.”

Illya nodded curtly. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” he asked with a twinge of sarcasm. The two men in black retreated to the doorway, standing like warriors protecting their lair.

“Please... have a seat. You must be tired after your long trip from New York.” Isabel motioned to one of the leather chairs before settling into her own. He obliged her and sat down.

Kuryakin had, of course, heard of Isabel Reiner. Alexander Waverly had briefly mentioned her as his successor to work on the expandable force explosives, but the Thrush infiltrator who was unable to complete the work he had started. Not having seen a dossier on Dr. Reiner, the Russian had no clue to what she looked like.

Isabel Reiner was, Illya estimated, in her late thirties or early forties. Her dark brown hair had subtle streaks of gray breaking through, all pulled back to the nape of her neck and clasped in a large, tortoise shell barrette. Her appearance was neat, professional. She stood about five foot, seven inches tall and was of average weight. Her slightly tanned skin accentuated striking hazel eyes framed in wire-rimmed glasses. The collar of a fuscia silk blouse was a dramatic contrast to her white lab coat with the Thrush bird embroidered on the left sleeve.

“I hope the travel arrangements weren’t too uncomfortable,” she continued.

The Russian sat silent, refusing to dignify her comment with a response.

Sensing that small talk would get her nowhere, Reiner decided to get right to the point.

“We’ve brought you here to complete your expandable force explosives project, Dr. Kuryakin. You have been extremely hard to find, and unfortunately, once we did, UNCLE snatched you back first.”

She waited a moment to see if Illya would respond. Silence.

“We are willing to pay you for your services, of course,” she offered, smiling slightly.

“Do you honestly think I would join the ranks of Thrush?”

“Well, perhaps not on a full time basis. We could consider you a consultant for this job, and when it is completed to our satisfaction, you would be free to return to UNCLE.”

A snort of laughter escaped Kuryakin’s lips. “As you well know, I have been out of the spy business for two years. Despite my absence, I somehow doubt that Thrush has changed all that much.”

“I can give you assurances.”

Illya just shook his head and stood to leave. The two men in black immediately flanked him with heavy hands on his shoulders. Kuryakin dipped and slipped to the right side. With lightening speed, he grasped the hand of the guard to his right and deftly maneuvered it behind him, causing the big man to bend forward. Using this momentum, the Russian pushed that guard into the other before karate chopping both to make sure they stayed down.

The door to Isabel Reiner’s office opened before Illya could reach its threshold and the same four men who brought him to the warehouse entered. Without a word they surrounded him and brought him face-down on the floor, just as they had done in the back of the truck.

Reiner stepped around from behind her desk. All Illya could see from his line of vision were the cuffs of her black slacks tickling the tops of black leather shoes. She squatted down next to him and grasped a handful of hair, raising his head.

“You do have a choice, Dr. Kuryakin. You can either make this easy or difficult... but either way, we will get what we want.”

He glared at her and turned silent again.

After a moment, she instructed the guards to remove Illya Kuryakin from her office.

It was the boredom which tortured Illya Kuryakin. He lay in relative comfort within a small windowless Thrush cell. His environs lacked privacy, but it did afford him a mattress atop a concrete slab, a toilet and sink, plus a table and chair. The front wall of the cell was made up of close iron bars. The other three were gray cinderblock. Bright fluorescent lights constantly bathed the area.

Illya assumed approximately two days had passed since he had become Thrush’s guest. There were no clocks in view, but at least six meals were offered to him and cleared away once he had finished. Several pair of footsteps broke the silence before two or three Thrush guards would appear with his tray. The fare was simple, but substantial. Generally the same guards would appear later to fetch the tray and empty plates.

Immediately upon entering, he had scoured the cell for any means of escape. He mused how quickly old habits returned. The room was indeed secure, with camera surveillance from several angles.

No one had threatened him, coerced him, or harmed him. What they were doing was trying to wear him down and disorient him, but Illya was quite adept at mentally entertaining himself. For most of the time, he lay on the mattress, eyes closed, mulling over partially solidified theories he had previously conjured up. Other times, he exercised, hummed or sang songs which sifted through his brain. He also caught up on some badly needed sleep.

After an indeterminate amount of time, the footsteps resounded again, only this time, they were joined by the tapping of high heels. Illya assumed they were finished being civil and were about to get down to business. A slight chill crawled up his spine. It had been years since he was in a predicament like this, but, like his old habits, the old fears returned.

Two Thrush guards and Isabel Reiner appeared on the other side of the prison bars. She was professionally dressed in her crisp lab coat atop what appeared to be a charcoal gray pantsuit. The guard to her left carried a stack of files and papers. The other guard kept his rifle at ready.

“I hope you haven’t been too uncomfortable, Dr. Kuryakin,” she said as the guard to her right unlocked the door. The familiar click of the lock disengaging preceded the swish of the door sliding to the left. Isabel and her mule entered the cell.

Illya remained silent.

“You know what we want from you.” She paused for a response, but got none.

“This is all the paperwork from your expandable force explosive project at UNCLE,” she continued, motioning for the guard to drop the stack he carried on to the table. “It was up-to-date when I left. You will notice that I’ve added entries since my return to Thrush. Unfortunately, you are the only person who can finish the formula. I assume it is what you had been working on these past weeks since you’ve returned...and I assume you have made progress.”

“You assume a lot,” the Russian finally said.

“Like I mentioned before, you can either make this hard or easy. We have fully equipped labs for you to work in. You will be highly paid for your work, should you choose to cooperate. Or we can coerce you.”

After another moment of silence, Isabel and the guard turned to leave.

“It’s up to you, Dr. Kuryakin.”

After the trio left, Illya walked over to the table piled high with stacks and briefly thumbed through them. Completely disinterested, he turned and lay down on his bed.

* * * * *

  
“It’s been three days already,” Alexander Waverly sighed, “... and in all honestly, I am worried about Mr. Kuryakin.”

Napoleon pinched his nose near the corners of his eyes, trying to rub out the headache which plagued him the entire day. “Me, too. So far we haven’t heard anything from him, or from Thrush concerning him. I’ve dispatched several teams in the metro and tri-state area, and I have people listening to their airway ‘chatter’ on a 24-hour basis. So far, nothing.”

“I do hope he hasn’t decided to melt into the woodwork again.”

“I seriously doubt that, Mr. Waverly. He’s made steps to set down roots again in New York. It would seem illogical for him to just pick up and leave without saying anything to either me or you.”

“Unfortunately, our hands are tied at the moment. Keep me apprised of anything you find out about him,” Waverly concluded with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“Yes, sir.” Napoleon Solo stood up and turned to leave. He had hoped the stress weighing on him did not transmit to his boss.  
His gut feeling told him that Thrush once again captured Illya. Other than the expandable force explosives project he had just completed, the Russian had not been privy to any other UNCLE information. It stood to reason that they wanted his friend for the sole purpose of extracting information about the explosive.

Solo headed straight to his office to keep abreast of his agents’ progress finding Illya. He was dismayed, but not completely surprised, when there was nothing to report. He took in a deep breath and held it for a moment, completely frustrated.

  
Illya paced his cell in boredom. Hunger rumbled through Illya Kuryakin’s belly. Until recently, his meals had been served at what he’d assumed were the appropriate times. The length between meals began to feel further apart, and the quantity of food and beverage had lessened.

He reminded himself that this was not the first time in his life he’d been hungry and he had survived thus far. After a few more minutes of senseless pacing, he returned to his mattress and lay down again. With his arms behind his head, he counted and recounted the tiles on the ceiling, and made observed patterns of their slight variations.

After what seemed like an eternity later, a pair of guards appeared at his cell. One carried his meal on a tray, and the other a rifle. The door was unlocked, the food was deposited on his table alongside the piles of untouched files, then the pair of Thrush guards left. Not a word was spoken between them.

Kuryakin stood up and went to the table, trying not to appear too anxious to eat. The cameras, he assumed, were still monitoring him, and he did not want to show any sign of weakening.

The plate of food consisted of a small boiled potato, a few ounces of tough meat, and a roll. The usually large paper cup of water was now reduced to a smaller size. He knew their strategy. They were finished treating him with a modicum of civility and were now beginning to try and break him down.

* * * * *

  
Shelby Winters rushed to Napoleon Solo’s office, her face flushed with excitement.

“Mr. Solo!” she said. “Listen to this!” She leaned over his desk and pushed the button to ‘Intercom 2’.

A few seconds of static sounded before voices were heard. A male voice chuckled.

“He’s a stubborn as ever,” the male mused. “You’d think those few years away from the job would have softened him up a bit.”

“He hasn’t cooperated yet. So we will start phase two,” a female voice responded

Napoleon depressed a replay button to hear the female voice again. She sounded familiar. He was not completely sure, but it sounded very much like Isabel Reiner.

More static.

“How to do plan to get him to finish the project?”

“Trust me, Gerald. With your help we will have everything under control.”

Silence. The transmission had ended.

Immediately, Napoleon Solo bolted up from his desk. “Thanks, Shelby!” he said as he pushed by her on the way to the door. “I owe you one for this.”

* * * * *

  
As usual, a pair of guards approached Kuryakin’s cell. During his stay with Thrush, five different pairs had been assigned the task of feeding him. Always the same two were paired, and each pair wore the same bored, impassive façades.

“I take it this is not the most exciting part of your day,” the Russian mused as his door was unlocked. The guards did not respond to his comment.

The routine was for one guard to remain outside, rifle in hand. The other guard would place the tray on the table with the still-untouched file folders.

This time was different. Both guards entered the cell, one with the rifle, but the second one did not carry a tray. The hairs on the nape of Illya’s neck bristled. The two burly Thrushmen quickly approached him.

Instincts ingrained in his sinews prompted him to leap at the guard bearing the rifle, pushing the weapon up and towards the big man’s throat. With an adrenaline induced force, he pushed him against the wall and pressed the rifle against the windpipe. Almost immediately the other guard attacked from behind. The same adrenaline surge helped the Russian spin the first guard around and push him into the second one.

After a short scuffle, Illya downed the two Thrushmen and sprinted out the cell door. He turned towards the right, the direction the guards had always come from when delivering his food. Before he made it to the end of the hallway, a siren began to wail. As he ran down the hall, he tried entering each door along the way. All were locked. Within seconds, a barred barrier dropped in front of him. He turned to backtrack, but another fell to block his path.

He heard the clicking of high heels approaching from one of the adjoining hallways. Kuryakin assumed it was Isabel Reiner, and his assumptions were correct when he saw her walking towards him, flanked by a man in a three-piece suit and four large Thrush guards.

“Time for ‘Plan B’?” the man asked.

“Yes, Gerald. I was hoping we wouldn’t have to resort to this, but unfortunately, Dr. Kuryakin refuses to cooperate.”

“I am rather pleased that you’re willing to try out my new truth serum on him, Isabel. I’ve only tested it on lab rats. The results were limited. We now have the opportunity to see how well it works on a human subject.”

Illya took in a deep breath and slowly sighed as the barred barrier raised and the four Thrush guards roughly escorted him out. Deep inside, he hoped that whatever conditioning Dr. Marc LaBan had given him would protect him from the drugs Thrush intended to inject into his veins.

* * * * *

“So who is this ‘Gerald’ in the communiqué?” Napoleon Solo asked.

“That would be one Gerald Devereaux, one of Thrush’s newer scientists,” Hiroyuki Sagami answered. He presented Napoleon with a folder. “According to our files, he recently graduated from a small medical school in Bogota, Columbia. This is all we have on him thus far.”

Solo started scanning the file. “Can you give me the abridged version?”

“Our intel on him is scant, Mr. Solo. Devereaux has a degree in psychology, but unfortunately, he graduated at the bottom of his class from a less that reputable medical school. Not too many institutions or psychiatric practices were willing to hire him. Thrush did.”

“Go on.”

“With Thrush he began developing truth serums, several of which were either a rehash of existing ones or useless. Apparently, from the communiqué, I feel we can deduce that he has come up with a new one, and plans to use it on Mr. Kuryakin.”

“Great,” Solo muttered under his breath. He feared for his friend’s safety, and hoped that his conditioning would protect him from garnering the information Thrush so desperately wanted. “Do we have any idea where the communiqué originated?”

“Sorry, Sir. It was short and we were unable to pinpoint its location. I believe it was transmitted over an unsecured wavelength in error. Unless, of course, they actually wanted us to receive it.”

“Hmmmm.” Napoleon waved the folder in the air. “Keep me appraised, okay?”

“Yes, Sir.”

* * * * *

  
Kuryakin remembered far too well the many times Thrush had had him in their clutches, shackled to a chair with a mad scientist waving a hypodermic needle in front of him. Yes, he had played out this scenario too often during his tenure with The Command.

As always, he maintained an air of stoic aloofness, refusing to dignify his captor with any sign of fear or weakness.

“I think you will rather appreciate this, Dr. Kuryakin,” Gerald smirked. “...being a scientist and all that. From the data I’ve collected during my studies, you should be talking to us in record time.”

Illya squinted his eyes. “And who exactly are you?”

The Thrush scientist’s back straightened. He was visibly surprised that Kuryakin had no knowledge of him.

“I am Gerald Devereaux... the man who will make the great Illya Kuryakin tell us everything we want to know.”

“You really think so?”

“Of course I do, Dr. Kuryakin. This formula,” he said, waving the vial as per usual in front of the Russian’s eyes, “...has been a work in progress for the past year and a half. I do believe it’s ready for testing on a human subject. The lab mice did well...” he paused dramatically a moment. “....except those who died, perhaps...”

Devereaux reached behind him to take a rubber tourniquet off a table. He wrapped it tightly around Illya’s right biceps. The scientist tapped Illya’s inner forearm a few times to see which vein he would use. He then reached for an alcohol soaked cotton ball and gently swabbed the spot he planned to inject the clear serum from the hypodermic needle.

Kuryakin winced ever so slightly as the tip of the needle slid into his vein. It took only seconds for its contents to enter his body and the needle withdrawn.

_Ground control to major Tom  
Ground control to major Tom.  
Take your protein pills and put your helmet on..._

Illya Kuryakin started mentally reciting David Bowie’s _Space Oddity_ . He knew it would be only a matter of time before the drugs took effect. In the past he would try countering their effects by keeping his mind focused on something else. Often it worked.

_(Ten) Ground control (Nine) to major Tom  
(Eight, Seven, Six) Commencing countdown  
(Five), engines on (Four)  
(Three, Two) Check ignition (One)  
and may God’s (Blastoff) love be with you...  
_

The Russian began feeling dizzy, unwell. The room around him undulated moments later and the words in his head began to garble _.  
_

_This is ground control to major Tom  
you've really made the grade  
And the papers want to know whose shirts you wear  
Now it's time to leave the capsule if you dare..._

“Tell me about the progress you’ve made with the expandable force explosives, Dr. Kuryakin!” Isabel Reiner demanded. The Russian had no idea when she entered the room.

Illya looked up at her, pupils dilated. Christ, the room was bright! He wondered if they turned up the lights. He did, however, maintain his silence. His eyes shut once more.

“He should be ready, Isabel,” Devereaux stated. “According to my findings, the drug should be firmly entrenched in his system by now.”

“So tell me, Illya, “ Reiner continued. “Have you finished the project?”

Kuryakin looked up again and with a drunken smile, sang:

“This is Major Tom to ground control  
I'm stepping through the door  
And I'm floating in a most peculiar way  
And the stars look very different today”

Both Isabel Reiner and Gerald Devereaux watched Illya’s eyes close and his head slump forward.  
“Is this a characteristic behavior for the drug you just gave him?” Reiner asked.

“I’m not sure, my dear. None of the lab mice sang.”

Devereaux shook Illya’s shoulders. When he got no response, he slapped him lightly on the face. “Come on, Dr. Kuryakin.

Focus on what I’m saying.”

_Here am I floatin' 'round my tin can far above the world  
Planet Earth is blue and there's nothing I can do…_


	4. Chapter 4

_Can you hear me, Major Tom?  
Can you hear me, Major Tom?  
Can you hear me, Major Tom?_

  
Like a broken record, the words kept resounding in Illya Kuryakin’s head. In a state of partial insensate, the Russian lay still, waiting for other feelings to trickle in.

Minutes... hours... went by, he was not sure. As time passed, his head began to pound, causing the lyrics to Space Oddity to become distorted and at a volume he wished he could decrease. His mouth was dry - his tongue coarse and swollen. Both eyes hurt in their sockets.

He moaned quietly and turned on his right side, away from the brightness which permeated his closed eyelids. He raised his left arm to cover his left ear and crooked it at the elbow to further shield his eyes. Nothing seemed to help.

_Can you hear me, Major Tom?  
Can you hear me, Major Tom?  
Can you hear me, Major Tom?  
Can you...  
Here am I sitting in my tin can far above the Moon  
Planet Earth is blue and there's nothing I can do_

An animalistic howl shattered his song and brought him to full consciousness. It took him only seconds to realize that it was he who was shrieking.

Illya sat up abruptly, as though a shot of adrenaline coursed through him. His head pounded and the room spun, yet despite this, he managed to stand on shaky legs.

Gritting his teeth against the pain in his head, Kuryakin moved about the cell. His breathing was shaky, his heart beat wildly in his chest.

Illya’s behaviors were being observed from another room via the cameras strategically placed outside his cell.

“Is this what you expected, Gerald?” Isabel Reiner rasped. “This is getting us nowhere!”

“Unfortunately, the outcomes of my serum could not be determined until I actually had a human subject. The lab mice showed a little aggression after the effects had worn off, but nothing of this magnitude.”

The duo watched as Illya aimlessly paced the cell, holding his head and crying out in pain.

“There’s not a scratch on his body,” Devereaux continued. “Can you imagine how this drug would effect someone who we’ve tortured?”

“Hmmm - something to think about - but at the moment, my priority is getting that finished formula. What can we do about this?”

“Not much, I’m afraid. I’ve given him far too much of my serum as it is. I’m not even sure if any of these effects are reversible. At the moment, you’re going to have to come up with another solution, Isabel.”

They witnessed Illya Kuryakin plowing into the table. In a painful rage, he swept his arm across its surface, scattering the files throughout the room. He then grasped the table’s edge and flipped it over. The loud noise seemed to fuel his fury. He backed away from it, almost tripping over the chair. Gritting his teeth and howling, he lifted the chair and threw it across the cell.

“You’re going to have to counteract the serum, Gerald! You do have an antidote, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course... but just as I wasn’t sure of the serum’s effects, I’m equally unsure as to the effectiveness of my antidote.”

Six Thrush guards escorted Isabel Reiner and Gerald Devereaux to Illya’s cell. The door was unlocked and they all entered en masse. Without a word, two of them grabbed Illya’s upper arms, and with the momentum created by their entry, they pushed him against the wall.

Kuryakin tried fighting back, flailing his arms and kicking with his feet. Two more guards joined in and assisted in lifting the Russian and bringing him back to his mattress, face down, pinning down his arms and legs. The last two guards stood by the door with their pistols at ready.

Once Illya was relatively subdued, Gerald Devereaux approached and injected the contents of a hypodermic needle into the Russian’s nearest biceps. It took less than a minute for the drug to do its job and sedate him.

“Illya Kuryakin! Can you hear me?” Devereaux asked.

Illya looked up, his pupils dilated and his face pale. Beads of sweat dampened his face. He nodded weakly.

“Good,” Isabel Reiner said. “Now get him out of here!”

Kuryakin felt himself being lifted. He was brought to wobbly feet and forced out of the cell. These men were practically carrying him upright, down a series of hallways - he barely felt his feet touch the ground. Their pace was quick, their touch was rough.  
Kuryakin’s headache worsened. He watched their progression through squinted eyelids. Overhead lights in the corridors glared past him as they moved, fading slightly as they passed, only to be continually greeted by more as they kept walking.

Their movement halted momentarily when they entered a small room. A swish behind him preceded the sensation of downward movement. Illya assumed he was in an elevator.

He was forced through another brightly lit room before the group of men pressed closer to him as they moved through a doorway.

Finally the bright lights ceased. Illya felt a change in the air against his clammy skin. In his compromised capacity he still was still able to deduce they had taken him outside, and it was nighttime.

Not a word was spoken between any of the Thrush men. They knew what their jobs were and did it in silence. Moments after going outdoors, the Russian’s arms were forced behind him and tied behind his back. He was taken to the back of a van and forced inside. Two of the guards entered with him. One kicked him behind the knees, causing his already wobbly legs to buckle beneath him.

After the sound of truck doors slamming shut, the driver turned the ignition key and started the engine. Seconds later the van bolted and began to drive away.

* * * * *

  
“Thrush wants ** _what_**???” Alexander Waverly roared.

“You did hear me correctly, Sir. Thrush wants me to deliver Illya’s lab notes for the expandable force explosives.”

“We can’t do this,” Waverly lamented. “Once we start giving in to Thrush’s demands, they have control over us.”

“I realize that, Sir.”

“Am I to assume they will exchange Mr. Kuryakin’s life for this information?” The Old Man reached for his pipe and clenched it between his teeth. Years had passed since he’d actually lit it with his favorite _Isle Of Dogs_ tobacco, but the pipe itself had become a minor stress reliever.

“Apparently they’ve made no headway trying to extract the information from him themselves.” Solo smiled slightly. “Illya always did have a stubborn streak a mile wide.”

“Do we now know where they’ve taken him?”

“Yes. He’s in Baltimore, Maryland. But we do not have an exact location. They plan to send me on a ‘treasure hunt’. Their first rendezvous with me is at a truck stop outside Baltimore 9 am sharp.”

“Hmmmm - a little information at a time, I presume We may be deluding ourselves to think he is even alive.”

“Yes, I’ve considered that as well, Mr. Waverly. And I realize we have the policy of not negotiating with Thrush or any other organization to release hostages, but I think there may be a devious way around this problem.”

“Oh?”

Napoleon briefly explained his planned course of action.

The Old man took a moment to assess Solo’s idea. “Take whatever back-up you need,” he finally said

“Actually, Sir, they demanded I come alone. By car. I will keep the UNCLE office in Baltimore up to snuff, though.” Napoleon checked his wristwatch. It was 5 in the morning. “With a little luck I can avoid rush hour traffic.”

* * * * *

  
It did not take long for Napoleon Solo to start the trek down Route 95 heading South from New York City.

With the petal-to-the-metal, he made it to the bottom of the New Jersey Turnpike by 7:30 am, crossed over the Delaware Memorial Bridge before picking up Route 295 South. The rest of his trip to Baltimore would be due south on Interstate 95.  
The trip was blessedly uneventful and Napoleon turned off exit 57 to O’Donnell Street, towards the truck stop a scant 10 minutes before 9 am.

A few vehicles dotted the parking lot. Solo took a spot near the door to a small restaurant and went inside, carrying a large manila envelope. Several men sat around the counter drinking coffee and eating from plates heaped high with eggs and bacon. Stacks of toast stood nearby. The young waitress behind the counter looked up and stared as Napoleon walked in, possibly unaccustomed to seeing a patron wearing an expensive Italian silk suit in her humble establishment.

Napoleon politely nodded and walked to the back of the restaurant, selecting a booth where he could sit with his back to the wall, taking in full view of anyone who entered or left.

“Coffee?” the lady behind the counter offered, holding up the glass coffee pot.

“Yes, please,” Solo answered. He could definitely use a hot cup of brew after driving in from New York City.

Two men in oil-stained denim coveralls entered shortly after Napoleon, and joined their friends at the counter. The agent doubted they were Thrush. A young woman, obviously another waitress, followed them in and quickly scurried behind the counter to begin her day at work.

Napoleon checked his watch. It was three minutes after nine. Not like Thrush to be tardy. Before he looked up, the waitress was alongside the booth, coffee cup in hand.

She placed the cup on the table top, followed by a napkin.

“You have fifteen minutes,” she instructed before turning and walking away.

Napoleon picked up the napkin and opened it. Directions and a simple map to the next stop were printed in black ball point ink:

_Boston Street - Left into the Canton Railway Yard_

The directions indicated that the stop #2 was relatively near - perhaps a mile or so away. Fifteen minutes would more than adequate to reach his second destination.

Napoleon ran outside with his manila envelope, but stopped in his tracks when he saw the front left tire of his sporty black coupe flatter than a pancake.

“Damn!” he muttered under his breath as he approached the incapacitated vehicle. An small white envelope on the dashboard caught his attention. He opened the driver’s side door and reached for it.

Napoleon gingerly shook the envelope. A muffled clinking indicated set of keys inside. He tore open the envelope and dumped its contents into the palm of his hand. A pair of keys with a tag fell out.

‘Blue Ford Fairlane - NST-2205’

Solo looked around the parking and spotted the car two aisles behind him. As he ran to the Fairlane, he wish he had more time to inspect this new vehicle. He realized the possibility of literally walking into a trap, but time was of the essence and he threw caution to the wind.

The blue Ford Fairlane started up immediately. Once out of the parking lot, Napoleon activated his pen to notify UNCLE Baltimore of his next stop.

“I’m going to leave this line open so you can track me. I have a feeling I’ll be jockeying all over Baltimore.”

“That’s fine, Mr. Solo,” a velvety voice responded from the local office. “We’ll keep tabs on your whereabouts.”  
The agent made it to his second stop with a few moments to spare.

Rays of light broke into Illya Kuryakin’s uneasy slumber. He looked about at unfamiliar surroundings. The Russian lay on a dusty concrete floor, hands bound behind his back. He was weak, his belly churned. The ache which wracked his body was reminiscent of the last time he had had the flu.

A wall of translucent glass illuminated the vacuous room. From his position he was able to see holes in the ceiling, perhaps from a roof in dire need of replacement. There was silence within. The room had an overwhelming stench of stale fish, which only added to his nausea.

He squirmed a bit and tried sitting up.

“Stop!” boomed a voice from behind. The familiar click of a gun’s safety being released sounded next.

“Where am I?” Kuryakin mumbled. Christ, his mouth felt like desert sand.

“Your final destination,” he chuckled slightly. “... if you know what I mean.”

Illya tilted his head back to see who was behind him. He recognized the man as one of the guards from the Thrush cell.

“My, we are vague, aren’t we? Since this is obviously my last earthly stop, could you at least humor me and let me know where that is?”

“You’re in Baltimore.”

“All this time?”

“Yeah.”

“Thrush couldn’t opt for a more exotic locale?”

“All right, all right... that’s enough.”

“Any chance of getting some water?”

The only response Illya heard was footsteps shuffling towards him, followed by a fierce kick in the side.

“I assume that means ‘no’,” he gasped.

* * * * *

  
The Canton Railway Yard lay behind a tall chain link fence. It was serviced freight, not pedestrian traffic. Beyond the fence was acres and acres of rail, twisting and turning in different directions for their assigned destinations. A few people milled around tending to the trains. Nothing looked suspicious or anything near what Thrush might leave as a clue. The railway yard housed two small buildings - apparently offices.

Napoleon rechecked the information the waitress had given him and he was in the correct location.

Less than a minute later, another car entered the railway yard. Napoleon watched it from his rearview mirror. The car, a large, black sedan with tinted windows, slowed down as it neared the Ford Fairlane and moved alongside it. The passenger side’s window lowered. An arm appeared and tossed a small package through Napoleon’s driver’s side window, then sped away.

All the package contained was a note, giving Solo another set of directions:

_Left on Boston  
Right on South Haven  
Left on O’Donnell  
Right on South Highland  
Left on Hudson  
Go to phone booth outside the grocery store at the end of Hudson  
You have 10 minutes_

Napoleon knew this roundabout route was purposely done to insure his not being followed by backup UNCLE agents. He was at their mercy and would take whatever steps necessary to find Kuryakin.

In the distance, Illya heard the distinct sound of footsteps climbing stairs. The screech of a heavy door opening on rusty hinges announced their arrival.

“Get him ready,” one of the newcomers demanded as he and his cohorts approached Illya.

Wordlessly, two of the henchmen lifted him to his feet. Another went behind Kuryakin and untied the rope which bound his hands. With swift movements, they brought his hands in front and bound them once more.

Isabel Reiner and Gerald Devereaux joined them.

“You’re going to regret not giving me the information I wanted,” she spat. “But that’s a moot point now. The formula is on its way.”

The Russian did not take the bait and remained silent.

“You’re not even interested in knowing what we have planned?”

Illya silently shook his head.

“Is it time yet?” she asked Gerald.

“In....” he looked at his wristwatch. “...30 seconds.”

Isabel hurried to a telephone hanging on the rear wall of the room. She picked up the receiver and dialed a series of numbers.

Napoleon spun the Fairlane around and exited the railway yard. He followed the directions through Canton’s residential section and got to the third destination just as the phone began to ring.

Fortunately, there was an available parking spot right in front of the phone booth. Solo raced out of his car to answer the phone before Thrush hung up.

“Yes?” Napoleon barked into the telephone receiver.

“Do you have it?” a female voice asked.

“Isabel?”

“Yes, Mr. Solo. Do you have the formula?”

“I do. But before I continue with your little charade, I need assurances that Illya Kuryakin is still alive.”

“You’ll just have to trust us on that one, Napoleon.”

“No can do. You have a choice. I either hear from Kuryakin, or I take this tin can you so kindly left for me and head back to New York WITH the formula.”

“Hold on.”

“It’s your dime.”

Isabel Reiner’s voice muffled through the receiver as though she was holding her hand over the mouthpiece. Napoleon heard a male muffled male voice as well, then a crystal clear gunshot followed by a loud moan.

“That, Mr. Solo, is Illya Kuryakin with a minor injury. I suggest you continue as planned.”

Napoleon’s knuckles turned white around the telephone receiver. He knew they had him by the short hairs.

“Your next stop,” Isabel continued, “is a small eatery called ‘The Meeting Spot’ on Boston Avenue.” She proceeded to give him directions. “You’ve got ten minutes - no more!”

Without another word, Solo slammed down the receiver and followed her directions to The Meeting Spot. Luck was with him once again and he found a place to park right in front of the eatery. He grabbed the manila envelope and went inside.

Two well dressed men sat at a table towards the rear of the restaurant. The older of the two caught his eye as he entered and nodded slightly. Napoleon joined them.

“Is that what Miss Reiner wanted?” the other man asked.

“Yes. Now, where do I find Illya Kuryakin?”

“Patience, Mr. Solo,” the older Thrushman smirked. “We’re not through yet.”

“Give me the car keys,” the younger man demanded. “And your pen communicator.”

Solo handed over the keys to the Ford Fairlane, then reluctantly gave him the silver pen. The Thrushie pocketed the keys before throwing the pen on the floor and crushing it with the heel of his right shoe.

“I hope you’re up for a little run through Fells Point this morning,” the older man said.

Solo got directions to the next location. He began running the seven short blocks on Aliceanna to St. Ann Street, where he made a left towards the harbor. As he ran, he activated a secondary homing device in his wristwatch. He was thankful that it also contained a mini transmitter so he could still communicate with UNCLE Baltimore.

The area was somewhat dilapidated. Many of the residences were still inhabited, but quite a few were boarded up. As he ran he recalled hearing that the Fells Point section of Baltimore was undergoing a rebirth.

After turning on to St. Ann Street, he had two more blocks to go until he reached Thames. The directions were to make a right on Thames until he got to The Harborfront Hotel in the middle of the next block.

The old brick and stone buildings along Thames were shabby, run down. Several store fronts were derelict and had boards across the windows and doors. Second and third storey windows were broken and at the mercy of the weather. Solo assumed their interiors were equally as decrepit, with broken plumbing and hideous walls. As he ran, he could see how gentrification could revive this struggling working class neighborhood.

Napoleon could feel beads of sweat pouring down his face and trickling beneath his shirt collar. An expensive Italian suit was not exactly proper running attire. The silk fabric kept in the heat his body was producing. He checked his watch - it read 10:22 am. The June sun was nearing its apex. At this particular moment in time, it felt like a sultry August afternoon.

He finally found the hotel. Its glass front faced the harbor, obstructed by very little except the police station across the street and a few other old buildings.

Isabel Riener met him at the door. She stood in a nonchalant pose with her right shoulder resting against the doorway. Wearing a tan three-piece suit, she looked completely out of place.

I believe you have something I want!” she snapped.

Napoleon took a few seconds to catch his breath.

“It’s good to see you again, too, Isabel,” he said with a bite of sarcasm. “Thrush treating you well?”

“I’m not here for social amenities, Napoleon. Just give me the formula.”

Solo extended the manila envelope to her, but just as she reached to grab it, he moved it away. “You realize, of course, that if this is a wild goose chase and Illya Kuryakin is dead, you’re going to have to look over your shoulder for the rest of your life.”

“Don’t be silly. I know better than to deceive you. He is still alive - perhaps a bit impaired at the moment, but breathing. Now... the envelope?”

Napoleon handed it to her. She tore open the sealed edge and scanned its contents.

As she read, her eyebrows raised. She nodded in acknowledgment after reading a bit more.

“This looks good, Mr. Solo. I knew if anyone could sneak this out of UNCLE, it would have been you. I was actually surprised you agreed to deliver this. Alexander Waverly generally refuses to negotiate for the release of his agents.”

“What about your end of the bargain? Where is Illya?”

Isabel turned to her left and pointed. “At the end of Thames street is an abandoned cannery. He’s on the top floor.”

As she finished her directions, a red sports car drove up to the curb in front of them. She smiled slightly at the driver, a male, then joined him in the car. “Let’s go, Gerald,” she said as they drove away.

* * * * *

Napoleon entered the old cannery with caution, gun drawn. He stopped momentarily after he entered for his eyes and ears to adjust. The foyer at the entrance was dim and quiet. Relatively satisfied that Thrush was not around, he found the stairway which would hopefully lead him to Illya.

The stairwell was dark and musty. The stench of old, decaying fish hit him like a ton of bricks by the time he climbed to the second floor.

At each landing, he opened the door to the cannery floor to see if Illya was located there. Each level had the same translucent glass windows, creating a stark contrast to the darkened stairwell. As he exited the cannery floors, he left each door open to provide a little ambient light on the stairway.

Isabel was true to her word. He found Illya on the top floor, hanging ‘chicken style’. Thrush had positioned him with his knees bent to his chest. A large pipe suspended him under his knees, with his elbows below the pipe and his hands bound in front of his shins. The gray coverall had a torn blood stain on the right side of Illya’s waist. Napoleon assumed that was caused by the gunshot he heard through the telephone earlier that morning.

“Illya,” Napoleon said softly, touching his friend’s face It was clammy, his forehead feverish; there was no response.

He looked up. The pipe was held up by chains attached to large hooks suspending from the ceiling. Fortunately, Thrush had hung Illya at chest level. Napoleon placed his shoulder underneath one side of the pipe and raised it, causing the chain to show some slack. He deftly flicked the chain hoping to dislodge it from the hook. After several attempts he was successful.

Solo squatted down, still shouldering the pipe. Illya began to slide towards him. When it was low enough, he twisted his body to take hold of Kuryakin’s and brought him to the ground. Napoleon slid the pipe and chain out from under his knees and placed his friend in a more comfortable position.

“Hey, Buddy - wake up!” he said as he gently tapped Illya’s face. His skin was pale and clammy, his eyes sunken deep with dehydration.

Napoleon depressed a button on his wristwatch.

“I found him. We’re on the top floor of the empty cannery at the end of Thames Street. Can you meet me here with a helicopter?”

“Yes, Mr. Solo. Give us ‘ten’.”

While he waited, Napoleon opened Illya’s coverall to see how bad the injury was. A wide bandage circled Illya’s waist, with a pad of something thick covering the wound. The entire bandage was secured with galvanized banding wire, crimped together where it overlapped to keep it from opening. Solo contemplated cutting the wire with his new Swiss Army knife, the gift Illya had left for him on his office chair, but decided against it. He assumed if the pressure was released from the wound, it might start to hemorrhage.

In the distance, Solo heard the sound of an approaching helicopter. He stood up and ran to the stairwell, ascending one more level in hopes of going outside. The door was kicked open to a decaying tarred roof.

He ran back downstairs and gently lifted Illya over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry. It took a few moments to bring Illya up to the roof, but they got there shortly after the helicopter.

“Can we land this baby?” the pilot asked via Solo’s wristwatch.

Napoleon bounced on the roof, feeling it give slightly under his weight.

“No. It’s too weak. Drop down a line with a double harness.”

“Roger that.”

A heavy rope with tandem harnesses descended from the chopper. When it reached the roof, Napoleon placed the lower one around Illya and secured the bindings.

The Russian began to stir. Napoleon stopped and squatted down next to his friend.

It’s all right, Illya. We’re getting you out of here.”

Quickly, Solo stood up and placed his legs through the harness, then slipped in his arms before fastening it across his chest. With a skyward look and a “thumbs’ up” the second man on the helicopter began to slowly raise the two agents off the roof.  
Perhaps it was the jerking motion, or the cool, fresh air on Illya’s feverish face, but he woke with a start. The Russian looked around wildly, flailing his arms and legs.

Napoleon’s arms crossed over his friend’s chest in a gesture to help him calm down.

Illya pushed Solo’s arms away. He began fidgeting with the secured clasp on the front of his chest, trying to get out of the harness.

Napoleon looked up at the helicopter again and motioned for them to stop.

“What’s wrong?” Solo asked, trying to remain calm.

“I’m wired! A bomb!” Kuryakin snapped back, still trying to unfasten the harness. “Let me go!”

“Where is it?”

“Around my waist.” The Russian’s fingers fumbled with the security clasp, unable to disengage it.

Napoleon grabbed his wrists. “Illya, stop! I can get this.”

Solo fished in his pocket for the Swiss Army knife and in a hurried panic, managed to open it to the wire cutter.

“We don’t have enough time!” Kuryakin yelled.

“Says who?” By now, Napoleon was already tearing away the fabric around Illya’s waist, bearing the binding wire. “Stay still!”

“As soon as you straightened my legs, you activated the explosives. There’s a twenty minute window before it explodes.”

Solo managed to cut through the majority of the wire.

“That gives me about another two minutes.”

“Come on, Napoleon! We’re both going to die if you don’t let me go!”

“Trust me on this one, okay? Have I ever let you down?”

Kuryakin forced himself to be still and let Solo cut the wire.

The banding wire was finally severed and pulled from Illya’s body. Napoleon motioned for the chopper pilot to take them over the harbor. Seconds later they were above the water and the bomb was dropped. It exploded just before it hit the water’s surface.

Illya shut his eyes and rested his head back against Napoleon’s chest, exhausted and weak.

Solo wrapped his arms protectively around Illya again. “Is there anything else you need to tell me?”

Kuryakin just shook his head before he felt them being drawn up to the helicopter.

Illya Kuryakin finally opened his eyes. He felt numb, almost drunk, unsure of his whereabouts.

“Are you feeling any better?”

“I am not sure yet, Napoleon,” came Illya’s weak reply. He was deeply relieved to be with his friend. “Where am I?”

“Back in New York. We brought you to Johns Hopkins Hospital after you began acting irratically in the helicopter and passed out. They stabilized you so we could transport you back here.”

The Russian shifted his weight slightly and looked around. UNCLE’s Medical unit was all too familiar. Although it had been years since he had laid in one of their beds, not much had changed. As he continued to wake, he felt the residual effects of the drugs Thrush had used on him.

“So how am I doing?”

Napoleon smiled. “You’re still a bit feverish, and you’ve developed a nice little infection where that bullet grazed your side. The half life of Thrush’s truth serum is almost out of your system. Basically, my friend, you should be good as new in no time flat.”

Kuryakin made a face and grumbled something in what Napoleon assumed was Russian. He then took in a deep breath and slowly let it out.

“I am rather dismayed that you gave in to Thrush’s demands,” Illya finally said. His tone was curt. “Isabel mentioned that the formula was being delivered to her. Why did you do that? That was the last thing I would have wanted.”

“Whoa - hear me out, Illya. Believe me, in no way did I compromised your formula or UNCLE’s security. Remember when you were testing the successful formula, and told me about how you coded your notes? You wrote “UF” for “Unsuccessful Formula” at the top, along with a numeric denotation. And you had specifically said that “UF9” was particularly volatile. Well, guess which formula I brought them?”

The Russian looked up sheepishly and smiled. “UF9?”

“Yup!”

Illya chuckled. “So perhaps by now, Isabel Reiner is nursing singed eyebrows.”

“One can only hope! By the way, we placed a small homing device in the clasp of the envelope I gave her. We now know where Thrush’s Baltimore satray is.” Solo paused a moment. “So how did it feel being back in the field again?”

The Russian rolled his eyes. “I would not exactly call that being ‘back in the field’. It was basically an abduction. But to answer your question, I would have preferred to put that part of my career behind me. Perhaps it was **_you_** who liked being back in the field, performing one of your daring rescues.”

“Yeah. A real adrenaline rush.” Napoleon laughed. “I always got a charge out of seeing you hang like a side of beef. I must say, Thrush always did have it in for you. It must be that irritating personality of yours.”

“Well, I never got hung like a side of beef while painting houses. Perhaps that is the profession I am best suited for. Regardless, I am glad that this particular affair is behind me.”

“So what now, my friend? Still planning to stay with the Command?”

Illya shrugged. “I guess so... unless something better comes up. You know, I had given serious thought to starting a line of haute couture fashions...”

**FINIS**


End file.
